Anywhere
by esking
Summary: It's all the beginnings basically. Originally based off a song, but not really. T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Ariadne**

**A/N Greetings, Earthlings. Happy to see you. This story is very, very loosely based on Don't Stop Believin' by Journey, basically because I was listening to it in the car, and seeing the people from Inception. There's also a few other inspirations. No slash, maybe pairings, maybe not. I haven't decided yet.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Don't Stop Believin'. They belong to Journey and Christopher Nolan respectively. Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. (Incidentally, I don't own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory either.) Smiley face for people who get that one. Enjoy**

She felt sick. Really sick. Her stomach heaved and flipped. She was hunched over the toilet in the bathroom upstairs. Locked in. Hiding. Nobody was home, at least not yet. And she couldn't wait until they were. She knew what she had to do. But she couldn't. But she had to. But the couldn't. The battle raged back and forth in her mind, flipping with the rolls in her stomach, which wouldn't settle, and kept her leaning over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the nausea passed, and she let herself unsteadily out of the bathroom. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she couldn't cry. Not yet. Right now she had to be strong. She had to be strong while she fished an old, wrinkled duffel bag out of the bottom of her closet. She had to be strong while she shoved clothes haphazardly into the bag, uncaring of what went in, and what fell to the immaculately vacuumed floor. She had to be strong while she took a framed picture off of her bedside table, which, with its white flower motif that matched her bed, desk, and bureau, she's always felt belonged to a five-year-old, and placed it gently in the outer pocket of the bag. Her strength, however, nearly left her as she wrote with a shaking hand, _"Gone to Jessie's. Be back tomorrow. Love, Ariadne,"_ on a sticky note and left it on the kitchen counter. Yet, with sheer force of will, she got herself out the front door, duffel bag over her shoulder, life savings in the inside pocket of her jacket, and into the silver Mazda which her parents had bought for her eighteenth birthday.

Every time a car passed, her pulse quickened several beats, and her stomach lurched again, as she imagined the town sheriff, or, worse yet, her parents pulling up beside her. But each panic moment decreased in severity, and only strengthened her resolve to keep driving. At last, she reached the train station, which was really just a glorified ticket window accompanied by two sets of tracks which wound through the tiny town, and then out into the world beyond, a world which she'd never explored.

Ariadne took her bag from the trunk, leaving the Mazda in the parking lot. She'd seen spy movies. She knew how they could get watches on specific makes of cars. She'd get caught if she stayed in the Mazda. But train tickets paid for with cash…that was a different story. Her stomach heaved again, and she collapsed onto the wooden bench outside the ticket window, hand to her belly, willing the ground to stop rocking beneath her feet.

Once the dizziness passed, she remained where she was, sitting alone on the bench. She checked her phone. It was 11 at night. Her parents would be home by now. Maybe they'd see through her lie. Maybe they'd call Jessie, and learn the truth. Maybe they'd search frantically for her, and maybe they'd find her at the train station, scold her for lying, and send her to bed without supper. Maybe her mother would yell at her for being irresponsible, for succumbing that disease, the worst of all ailments, being a _teenager_. Ariadne almost wished she would. She wished her parents would come, that there was nothing to fear in their finding her. That if they drove her home and grounded her for a week, that would be the end of it. But it wouldn't. There would never be an end. Not if she stayed. It would be months of agony, followed by years of shame and struggle.

She jumped horribly as a high-pitched whistle rent the still night air. A train chugged into the station. In the darkness, surrounded by the fog rising from the flat fields, she could pretend, like she had as a child, that it was the Hogwarts Express, come to take her away from her pressuring mother and distant father, come to take to a place of magic, where she could do what she wanted, rather than what everyone else wanted her to want. And maybe this time, she realized with a thrill of excitement, maybe this time it would. She pulled a wad of cash from her jeans pocket and bought a ticket for the midnight train.

"Destination?" asked the sleepy-eyed ticket vendor.

"Anywhere," she whispered. "Anywhere.

Ariadne laughed aloud, feeling wondrously free with the brisk wind whipping in through the open window. The compartment was empty, and she felt her heart lighten and expand to fill the whole space. She was free. Her pocket vibrated. The screen of her cell phone showed "Tyler." How fitting, that he should be the one to call as she left, when it had been he who'd forced her to leave in the first place. In one swift motion, she tossed the still buzzing phone out the window of the train, and watched it disappear into the darkness, imagining it smashing into smithereens of sharp rocks, or else landing in a thick, stinking bog, or a rushing river. She was sure the fish would love to talk to Tyler.

The train sped onwards, taking her to God only knew where. And she couldn't help but feel that everything was going to be alright. Her hand rested once more on her stomach. She knew that somewhere along this journey, she and her baby would find their very own Hogwarts.

**A/N: So also some influence from Juno, in case you didn't notice. I really loved writing this, and I hope you like reading it. The next chapter may see some more familiar faces. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Arthur**

Arthur rolled over, pressing his pillow over his face, trying futilely to block out the riotous noises emanating from the party downstairs. His parents were away for the weekend, which translated into a 36 hour party, and Arthur locking his door and hiding in his room. He hated all Joey's drunken friends and their drunken parties. The only thing he hated more was Joey's gambling.

A huge _CRASH!_ from downstairs made Arthur jump. He could hear more laughter. Mom and Dad were going to be _furious_. Arthur couldn't count the number of times they had had shouting matches with Joey about his behavior. The problem was that there was nothing they could take away from him. Joey had his own money source, which his parents had still not been able to identify. He had his own car, and did all his own chores. He still maintaining straight A's in school, and he was still the only baby-sitting Arthur would accept. This was because, despite all of Joey's short-comings and wild friends, he was the only person in the world who didn't treat Arthur like a nine-year-old, didn't patronize him or sugarcoat things.

But at times like this, Arthur thought, when Joey was out of control, he felt much more on his parents' side, and wished that Joey would come to his senses.

Suddenly, Arthur became aware of footsteps climbing the stairs. He tensed, and curled closer to the wall, wrapping his comforter protectively around himself. His door was locked. Any drunk couple looking to mess around in a free room would soon be deterred after a few tries on the handle. But these footsteps didn't sound drunk. They were slow and even, and belonged to only one person. The handle clicked, and the door swung inward, slicing the room's darkness with the bright yellow of the hall lights.

"Hey, Arthur," said Joey softly, his voice barely audible over the loud thumping music and wild shouts.

Arthur felt a sudden surge of anger at his brother, and didn't reply.

After a moment, Joey said, "I know you're awake. You're holding your breath."

Arthur sighed and pushed his covers away from his head, glaring up at Joey, who smiled. "Sorry about the noise."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Joey, you're every Ivy League schools' ideal student. Why do you waste your time with bacchanals like these? I doubt ninety-five percent of the people downstairs even know what bacchanal means."

"I've always treated you like an adult, haven't I?" said Joey.

Arthur nodded grudgingly.

"But there are still some things, genius as you are, that you don't understand. I'm doing this for you, for your future."

"You deliberately piss off Mom and Dad and have obnoxious parties so that I'll have a good life?"

"Something like that," said Joey. "Come on, don't be mad. Tomorrow, I'll make it up to you. We'll play cards."

Arthur gave a reluctant smile.

Joey held up a translucent red die. "What's the first rule about rigging a game?"

"Don't get caught?"

"Don't get _cocky_," Joey corrected. "A con only lasts as long as you can sell it. And if you bet thou on sevens every turn, people will get suspicious. So you stay smart, and play it safe."

Arthur nodded.

"Good." Joey reached for a small rectangular package. "Cards."

Neither had ever really said it in so many words, but both brothers knew that the other was really the only one who understood him. Arthur was smart far beyond his years, but unlike other prodigies, whose talents alienated them from others, he'd learned exceptionally fast not to call attention to his. Joey was the only person around whom Arthur could be himself.

And likewise, Joey spent so much time around people the intellectual equivalents of cavemen, as he called them, pretending to be as drunk and crazy as the rest, when in fact he, too, was quite intelligent. So every opportunity they got, Arthur and Joey challenged each other in intellect. Like counting cards. And Arthur was very good.

"What's the count?" Joey asked a ten-almost-eleven-year-old Arthur.

"Plus sixteen," said Arthur without missing a beat. It was three days before Arthur's eleventh birthday, and four before Joey left for Belgium. He'd told their parents it was to got to a young entrepreneurs' conference, but Arthur knew that he'd been offered a position as junior book keeper and financier for Jacques Maurnier, the head mob boss in Western Europe. Or, as Joey corrected Arthur every time he said mob boss, the main "director of disreputable activities." "Or mob boss," Arthur would shoot back, and Joey would concede, "Or mob boss."

It was a tribute to how well Arthur had learned to suppress his emotions that he had not let on how upset he was about this arrangement. The plan was for Joey to stay in Brussels for a preliminary week, during which he was be rigorously tested and background-checked. If he was unsatisfactory, they'd send him back to continue on with his life as though nothing had happened. But if he passed, as Arthur knew he would, his parents would be informed by the Belgian police of a tragic accident, and their son's death. They would receive a box of his ashes.

At the same time, as pre-arranged by one of Joey's many contacts, Arthur would take out a subscription to National Geographic.

His parents never even questioned Arthur's sudden interest in the wonders of ancient Guinea, or in the mountain men of Caucasus. They agreed that it would be a good interest for Arthur, something to occupy his mind.

It had been two months since the funeral, two months of "heartfelt sympathy" and nervous looks from friends and family, as though they thought Arthur's parents might shatter like porcelain dolls at any moment. It was annoying for Arthur, but he knew his parents were close to breaking. And he had no intention of opening up to them, for both his mother and father seemed to think that he was the most fragile of all, and had taken to asking gently "how he was" in five minute increments. Arthur had begun to spend nearly all of his time in his room, hiding from their concern behind his locked door.

Arthur raced home from the bus stop on a Friday afternoon and yanked open the mail box. He'd been waiting all week for this day. And there it was. the yellow-edged, glossy cover of National Geographic, depicting some photograph of a bioluminescent fish. Arthur ripped open the plastic sleeve and flipped hurriedly to page 168. There lay a folded piece of paper. Arthur pulled it open. it was full of Joey's handwriting.

Hands trembling with excitement, he quickly folded it back up, stuck it back in the magazine, and ran inside.

**All readers and reviews appreciated. There will be more for both Arthur and Ariadne. And I have Eames. Any suggestions for Cobb and Yusuf and anyone else you'd like to see are more than welcome. Peaces for the Reeses.**

**-esking**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Cobb, as a young midget chillun**

**Thanks to all my readers. This is definitely my most sporadic story. At this point I'm really just hiding from what I should really be doing, and this idea just kind of hit me when I got home tonight. So I decided to put it in, so there. Deal with it. Mr. You-know-who-you-are, I'm afraid I got nothin' for ya tonight. And you should be doing homework anyways.**

**Disclaimer: Own Inception I do not. (And Yoda belongs to Frank Oz, whatever the contracts say).**

Rain pattered against the car windows, catching the dim yellow light of the street lamps. Dom stifled a yawn as he thought dejectedly of the good two hours of homework that still lay ahead of him. It would be another late night.

"Your grandmother's visiting this weekend," said his father's gruff voice from the driver's seat. He sounded stiff and forced, like he was talking only to avoid thinking about something else.

Dom groaned. "Are you serious? I need to work on my science project. You know she's gonna want me at her beck and call every second."

"Yes, well…" his father trailed off, his dark glittering eyes fixed on the road. "I'm sure it'll be fine. We're always fine, you know. We've had some rough times, our family, but we always bounce back. That's important. It's really important. You have to know that we can always bounce back and-"

"Dad, what are you talking about?" Dom interrupted.

"Huh?" asked his father as though he hadn't heard. "Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just the ramblings of an old man."

"You're not even forty," Dom pointed out.

"And you're not even twelve," his father shot back. "You're not old enough to judge being old."

"I'll be twelve in less than a week," said Dom. "Will I be old enough then?"

"We'll see."

They pulled into the driveway outside their modern, Wright-esque house, and Dom's father cut the engine and stood up out of the car and Dom followed suit. The second that he did, a bright flashlight blinded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

From somewhere in the street he heard a rough voice bark, "David Cobb, you are under arrest. Please turn around slowly and place your hands on your vehicle.

Dom forced his eyes open, unwilling to believe his ears. Parked on the other side of the street he saw two police cars , and in front of them, three policemen aiming guns at his father.

"Dad, what's going on?" he asked, coming around the car to stand beside his father.

"Be quiet!" his father snapped. He looked back at the officers and didn't move.

The first police officer walked forward cautiously, keeping his gun raised. "Make the right decision Dave. Just come easy, and everything will be fine."  
>"Yeah, it would be," called Dom's father, still without any sign of cooperation. "But you've got the wrong man."<br>"That's not my department, Dave." The policeman was talking loud and slow, as though addressing someone foreign. "I'm just supposed to bring you in, and you can plead innocent in court. Please place your hands on the car _now_.

"I'm not going to court. I didn't do anything."

"Dad?" Dom said again. "What's happening?"

"Dave," the cop said, his voice angrier, harsher. "You murdered a man and you're going to jail. Do you really want to do this in front of your son?"

Dom tugged on his father's sleeve. "What is he talking about? You didn't kill anyone, did you?"

His father was silent for a moment, and then he bent down and grabbed Dom by the shoulders, gentle but firm, and looked him right in the eyes. "Dom, I want you to go inside now, okay? Tell Mommy what's happened, and then I want you to call Uncle Darryl and tell him too. Can you do that for me?"

"Dave!" the cop shouted.

Dom's father ignored him, his expression desperate. "Tell Darryl that I'll be at his house for Thanksgiving!"

"But Thanksgiving's not for-"

"Mr. Cobb! Please let go of your son and put your hands on the vehicle!"

"Go on! Run inside now."

Dom nodded and headed towards the house. Just as he pulled the door shut behind him, he heard a shout and the muffled _pew!_s. He slammed the door shut, but then stood on his toes and peered out the window near the top. There were shadows just outside the reach of the porch light. He saw a lone figure standing tall, gazing towards Dom. A second later, it turned and vanished into the night.

Dom ran into the kitchen, where his mother was preparing dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Arthur **

**part 2**

His mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. Ever since the news of Joey's death, she'd taken to making elaborate, time intensive meals which generally ended up in the garbage.

Arthur kept his head down, walking purposefully toward the stairs. Almost there…

"Hi, sweetheart."

He stopped, gritting his teeth. "Hi, Mom."

"How was school?"

"Oh, you know…" Arthur started walking towards the stairs again.

"No, I don't," said his mother sharply. "You never talk to me anymore.

Arthur could sense an imminent heart to heart discussion. He clutched the National Geographic tighter. "School was fine, Mom. We learned about the Native Americans and read a story about molasses. I'm getting knowledgeable. Be comforted. I'll get a college scholarship. Yay. Good bye." He kept walking.

"Nice try, young man. You get your little bottom back here. We never spend any time together anymore."

"We never spent any time together before Joey died either," said Arthur savagely, turning to face her. "You just notice now because you don't have him to bug the crap out of." He spun on his heel and sprinted upstairs and into his room. He slammed the door and locked it. Then he pulled the letter out of the magazine and started to read.

_Dear Arthur,_

_Thank you for your letter. I'm glad to know that Mom and Dad are recovering. Thank you again for not telling. Keep practicing your counting and your legerdemain. There's plenty of demand for that kind of guy out here. I've been pulled into dozens of rigged games on the side. Who know? Maybe in seven or eight years, we might be working together. Your account of the fifth grade play made me laugh. Who knew you had such talent for narrative? I shared it with my room mate, Vladimir. He says you sound like a cool kid (or however that translates in French.) I've been getting better, but a lot of the conversations I hear still go over my head. PAY ATTENTION IN LANGUAGE CLASSES! Work is heating up around here. Maurnier is keeping his cards pretty close to the chest, but I know he's about to make a huge deal with some Chinese Triad guys. Anyways, I miss you, and I look forward to your next letter. Give Mom and Dad a hug from me._

_Love,_

_Joey._

_P.S. I heard this joke the other day, thought you would appreciate it: A fellow and a giraffe walk into a bar. The giraffe lies down and goes to sleep. The bartender says, "Hey! What's that lyin' there?" and the fellow says, "It's not a lion, it's a giraffe." _

_One of the guys here is British. He has that kind of sense of humor. (Or should I say humour?) I hope to hear from you soon. Take care of yourself._

Arthur reread the letter several times, savoring each word, hearing them in his brother's voice, picturing his strong, spider-like hand flitting across the page. Words already forming in his head, Arthur grabbed his notebook, ripped out a clean sheet of paper, and sat down at his desk.

_Dear Joey,_

_Thank you for thanking me for your letter. Everything sounds so glamorous and exciting on your end. I have been diligently practicing my rigging. I can't even begin to say how much I'd love to join you over there. I don't know how I'm going to last another seven years. Mom has become incredible over-bearing, and she still hasn't given up on being a gourmet chef. Dad doesn't really talk to me anymore. I think I remind him of you. I wish we could tell them. Then at least they'd leave me alone. I'm taking French and German classes after school. Je veux venir avec toi à Belgique. See? We're finally learning useful things. For the first three months it was just "J'ai deux stylos. J'ai un stylo bleu et un stylo vert. Tu as combien de stylos?". Do you say that very often while you're relieving inebriated Belgians of all their money? But in any case, classes are better now. I can't wait until your next letter. Is there any way you could visit? Have fun on the big deal._

_Love, Arthur_

_P.S. How many Sigmund Freuds does it take to screw in a light bulb?_

_Penis._

Arthur folded up the letter and slid it into an envelope. Joey hadn't given him his own location, but had specified a lock box at the Belgian post office to which he paid regular visits.

Six Years Later

_Dear Joey,_

_I don't think I'll be able to take that job with you in Brussels. I received an offer of my own today. As you know, I've been taking mechanical engineering and drafting courses at NYU, and today a man called Mr. Cobb offered be a position. I can't give you details, because frankly, I'm not sure I could explain it in writing. It challenges all of my preconceptions about our world. I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around it all. Needless to say, I accepted Cobb's offer-he didn't seem at all bothered by that fact that I'm not even 18-and I depart for Beijing the day after tomorrow! I've told mom and dad that I've been offered a year-long student ambassador position, and Cobb must have very powerful influences, because school is letting me graduate early on his recommendation. I'm not sure exactly where I'm going, but as soon as I get a set address, I'll write. Wish me luck!_

_Love, Arthur_

_P.S. Cobb tells me he sometimes indulges in a game of cards. We'll see how this ends…_

**All reviews appersheated. Thanks for bearing with me. Enjoy your respective lives, and admire the carpet on the way out-it's made of Caspian's soul. Finally we found a use for it. **

**(:) -peas in a pod. Or a ninja.**

**-esking**


	5. Chapter 5

**Arthur part 3**

**Sorry about the high concentration of Arthur-ness. I'm copying out of a notebook for him, so I've got plenty of material ready to go, whereas with the others I'm just making it up on the fly. I'll get back to Cobb soon, and I've got a vague idea for Ariadne. Eames will be coming into play…later. When the Johnny Depps on my right and left shoulders say it's okay. Which may not be for some time-they're very temperamental. **

For Arthur, time had always inched by at a snail's pace as he awaited the day he could escape from the intellectually oppressive prison which his house had become, and join Joey in the life of high-stakes adventure. But now that he was working for Cobb, time whipped by at break neck speed. There was so much to do, so many details to straighten out, so much planning, always another deadline rushing at them like a speeding train. It was harder than Arthur could ever have imagined, and more wonderful than he might have dreamed (no pun intended). On his first job, he'd felt the thrill of the unknown. All his life, he'd kept control over every single detail. Even in games of chance, he knew the odds. And so, when he realized he had no idea what to expect in the mark's mind, he felt an incredible, giddy excitement.

Outwardly, of course, he was cool as a cucumber, just as Joey had taught him. But inside he was bubbling with adrenaline. He too could live a life of glamour and excitement.

The job was less unpredictable than he'd expected. They'd planned interaction and extraction to a tee, and it all went rather smoothly. Arthur felt a deep-seated sense of pride in his work, but was even happier with the pay-off. His family hadn't been rich-they couldn't afford to send him to a private school-and he'd learned to operate on a tight budget. As one might imagine, when he found himself suddenly possessing more money than he'd ever had in his life, he didn't quite know what to do.

All he'd ever learned was how to _get_ money. He could cheat, lie, manipulate, and steal with the best of them, but it had all only been pretend. With Joey it had been play money and candy, all practice. As a teenager, it had been low stakes, never more than $50 at a time. So much money made him a little uneasy.

He decided to put most of it into a Swiss savings account, because that was what rich people did in movies. But he also put a little aside for himself, realizing that he could now afford expensive taste. This could be fun…

_Nine Years Later_

Somnacin headaches were an inevitability of any multi-layer dream, but that didn't mean Arthur was used to them. By four in the morning, Tokyo time, the ache had become a power saw repeatedly applying itself to the base of his skull, in time with an army of hammers pounding away at the center of his brain. He resigned himself to at least another three hours of agony and popped two aspirin, knowing they'd be useless. Pain killers had no effect whatsoever on Somnacin headaches. Miles had once explained that it was because they were psychological. The head aches were a side-effect as the brain reoriented itself to be in step with reality, and the wilder the dream, the harder it was to get back on track. This was why most experienced extractors tried to keep their dreamscapes as realistic as possible.

Usually, though, the result was worth the headache. Usually at this time he would be in luxury, traveling to another destination, another job, with his Swiss bank account $100,000 fatter. But with this whole Saito business…it was a high stakes game, with high risks. And odds were Saito would put a bounty on their heads, along with Cobol's. Arthur had called in a favor to charter a private helicopter to get him and Cobb out of Japan as fast as possible. He felt a sudden surge of resentment for Cobb, for the obstacles his fugitive status set in their path.

That wasn't fair, Arthur chided himself. None of this was Cobb's fault. He hadn't done anything. It was Mal. Beautiful, sweet, kind Mal. She'd done this. There was no doubt in Arthur's mind that Cobb was innocent, but apparently he was alone in that belief. He couldn't hold their travel impediments against Cobb.

From the stylish obsidian coffee table cam a harsh buzzing, startling Arthur out of his reverie. His cell phone jittered across the highly polished surface, flashing "UNKNOWN CALLER". Arthur picket it up, debating whether to answer or not. Going on experience, answering an unidentified number was not advisable. But this was a secure line. Anyone on the other end wouldn't be able to get a location off the signal. What was the harm?

"Hello?"

"Arthur?" There was a delighted laugh. "I found you! Ha!"

The voice was very familiar, but Arthur hadn't heard it in over 15 years.

"Joey," he said, a rare genuine smile spreading across his face.

"How are you, baby bro?" Joey's words were slightly slurred, as though he'd been drinking. Same old Joey.

"I'm…to be honest, I'm in a bit of a situation, but nothing I can't handle."

"Yeah? God, it's been eight years since I heard from you."

"Nine," Arthur corrected.

"Nine, yeah. What about that job? You never said. I've been dying to know how it turned out."

"It turned out well." Arthur's eyes fell on the pistol in the top of his open duffel bag. "I'm still doing it."

"Is that the trouble?"

Arthur smiled. Even after all these years, his brother could still read his mind. "Kind of. It's nothing big. I can handle it."

"Oh, you can handle it, eh?" said Joey. "What do I always say?"

Arthur laughed softly. "Don't get cocky."

"Exactly. And something tells me the stakes are a little higher than black jack with skittles."  
>"A little," Arthur agreed. "What's up with you?"<p>

"I'm home!" said Joey excitedly. "I wanted to see if we could get together."

Arthur sat up straighter. "As in _home_ home? As in Buffalo? But what about Mom and Dad?"

"Relax," said Joey. "They moved to San Diego years ago. We're fine. So how about tomorrow?"

Arthur consulted his watch. It was six am Tokyo time. That meant if was nine in the morning the day before in New York. Any flight from Tokyo to J.F.K. was over nine hours, and he'd need t drop off Cobb before he could go within a mile of the airport. Arthur's mind whirred. An innocent week with his brother would be the perfect way to lie low until the issues with Cobol were smoothed over.

"Not tomorrow," he said. "Wednesday. I'll meet you at the café where we went after school. Wayward. Is it still there?"

"It's still there. That sounds great." Arthur could practically hear his brother's grin.

"See you then." He hung up.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, smiling. He'd learned to suppress his feelings, but he'd never stopped missing Joey. The prospect of seeing him again made him feel like things were finally coming full circle, like his life, which had been split in two so many years ago, was at last sewing itself back together.

he spent the next 45 minutes pacing restlessly, reminiscing. He replayed the conversation over and over in his mind. In less than 72 hours, he would see Joey again. He just had to leave Cobb in some seedy hidey hole, or send him off to some remote African country, and he'd be home free.

Finally, he heard the steady thumping of helicopter blades. Hastily, he regained his composure and headed down the hall. In 71 hours, he'd see Joey.

He raised a fist and knocked four times on Cobb's door, ready to take care of his last duty before heading home. The door swung open. Cobb looked heartrendingly gaunt. His eyes were hollow and underscored by deep purple shadows, and his jaw was clenched. Arthur felt immediately guilty. Of course Cobb was more than a hurdle between himself and Joey, and of course he was rattled by Mal's appearance even more than Arthur had been. Tact was required for swift progression, and Cobb hated sympathy.

Arthur watched him toss a gun into a duffel bag and zip it, at the same time slipping Mal's top into his pants pocket. His hands were shaking.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Cobb looked up. His eyes seemed unable to focus. "Yeah. Why?"

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This required sensitive _lack_ of sympathy. "Down in the dream, Mal showing up?"

"Look, I'm sorry about your leg. Won't happen again."

A worry occurred to Arthur. Cobb was more messed up than he'd realized, and suddenly it didn't seem like the best idea to leave him on his own. "It's getting worse, isn't it."

Cobb gave him a reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes. "One apology's all you're getting, alright, Arthur? Where's Nash?"

The little PTSD bastard was avoiding his question. Arthur considered pursuing the subject, but he knew from experience that once Cobb brushed aside a subject, it wasn't coming back.

Irritated, Arthur said, "Hasn't shown. Wanna wait?" he added sarcastically. If anything else went wrong, he wouldn't even manage to get to New York by next week.

"No," said Cobb, either missing or ignoring Arthur's sarcasm. "We were supposed to deliver Saito's expansion plans to Cobol Engineering two hours ago, by now they know we've failed." He led the way back to the door and held it open for Arthur. "It's time we disappear."  
>They climbed the steps to the roof in silence, Arthur periodically sneaking glances at Cobb, trying to gauge his stability. He seemed on edge, but okay. Arthur had no qualms about leaving him to his own devices.<p>

"Where will you go?" he asked as they emerged into the brisk, grey dawn.

"Buenos Aires," said Cobb. "I can lie low there, maybe sniff out a job when things quiet down. You?"

Picturing Joey sitting at one of the small, mismatched tables at Wayward Café, Arthur said, "Stateside."

"Send my regards." There was a bitterness in Cobb's voice that made Arthur instantly regret his words. But the guilt was quickly forgotten dismissed as he caught sight of the helicopter which would take him home.

A bulky Asian man in a tailored suit pulled open the helicopter door. The first thing Arthur saw was Nash slumped against the seat, beaten and bloody, and looking at them with absolute terror in his basset hound eyes. Seated across form him was Saito, who sighed apologetically.

"He sold you out. Though to come to me and bargain for his life…"


End file.
